


am i already mourning you?

by exbeekeeper



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Misunderstandings, and her complex makes yours go fucking haywire, thats this., you know when you have one complex and your gf has a separate but related complex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:08:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22041577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exbeekeeper/pseuds/exbeekeeper
Summary: Ingrid is hurt protecting Dimitri in the final battle against Edelgard. Back at the monastery, Annette struggles to cope with the possibility of losing her.“Hey,” Mercedes says, “what’s all this?”Annette makes another frustrated noise. “It’s Ingrid,” she says, gripping the bedsheet in her fists, “she’s just– I thought– well.”Mercedes hums thoughtfully. “Sit up,” she says, in that tone that leaves no room for argument, the one she’d always used back in their school days to calm their rowdy classmates with a word, “and start from the beginning.”
Relationships: Annette Fantine Dominic & Hilda Valentine Goneril, Annette Fantine Dominic & Mercedes von Martritz, Annette Fantine Dominic/Ingrid Brandl Galatea
Comments: 9
Kudos: 88





	am i already mourning you?

**Author's Note:**

> this was written as my half of a trade with [j!](https://twitter.com/jireemblem) they drew me [this lovely lysinette comic](https://twitter.com/jireemblem/status/1207732208976453638) and in return i did... this! i hope it was what you wanted! <3
> 
> extra warnings: ingrid's self-sacrificial knighthood thing gets addressed here, as do annette's abandonment issues wrt g*lbert
> 
> title comes from salt by lady lamb!

Annette bursts into the infirmary purposefully, startling Mercedes out of her chair and to her feet. Ingrid is lying in the bed at the far wall, next to the window. There’s a bundle of delphiniums from the greenhouse in a vase on the table at her side, likely from Dimitri – goddess knows he must feel horrible after what had happened – with help from Dedue. Ingrid herself is still unconscious, head turned away from the door, chest a mess of bandages and dried blood. 

She turns to Mercedes, whose eyes have softened upon seeing her. That’s fair; Annette is sure she looks a mess. She hasn’t even gotten to wash the blood from her hair, the mud from her elbows and knees, the tear tracks from her face. She certainly hasn’t changed clothes. Mercedes reaches out to her and grips her wrist to ground her. 

“Annie…”

“How is she?” Annette grits out, squeezing her eyes shut. She feels Mercedes’ arms come up around her then, and Annette fists her hands in the material of Mercedes’ bishop’s robes. 

“Her physical wounds are deep, but they’re not life-threatening anymore,” Mercedes says, “I’m more worried about the ones she sustained from Edelgard herself.” 

Annette takes a shuddering breath in a desperate bid not to give into her tendency to catastrophize. The thought of a world without Ingrid is too devastating to consider. They have yet to really, properly talk about whatever this thing between them is – though it’s been going on in one capacity or another since they all returned for the millennium festival, Ingrid had asked that they not put a name to their relationship until after the war, because she didn’t want either of them to have to deal with the other’s death in the capacity of a lover rather than a friend.

Annette had wanted to ask her what the difference was, since at least _her_ anguish would be just as strong regardless, but at the time she held her tongue.

And then they fought Edelgard – their old classmate, someone Annette had eaten meals with, danced with at the ball what felt like a lifetime ago – and Edelgard turned herself into some horrible monster with a terrifying rattle for a voice and great black claws instead of hands. The professor’s tactical two-pronged assault saw Annette and Ingrid on opposite sides of the castle, and the next time Annette caught sight of her – girlfriend? her lover? whatever – Ingrid was already clearly hurt, clutching at her side, blood dripping down her ruined, caved-in armor. 

As near as Annette could tell, she had taken the full brunt of a swipe from the blade of one of Edelgard’s Titanus. “Ingrid! Ingrid, let me –” she had shouted, rushing toward Ingrid’s position in the throne room, the warm light of a Heal spell coalescing in the palm of her hand. But if Ingrid heard Annette’s cry she ignored it, opting instead to dismount haphazardly from the back of her pegasus and move jerkily in the direction of the action, where Dimitri and the husk Edelgard had become were locked in combat. Edelgard raised an arm, sickly-looking magic coalescing in the palm of a single clawed hand, and Ingrid lurched forward, putting herself between Dimitri and Edelgard’s attack.

It hit her in the shoulder and the magic crackled up her neck and down her back. Annette remembers screaming, and then having to focus her attention on Edelgard, firing off gale after gale of wind as Mercedes dragged an unconscious Ingrid out of the Hegemon’s range. She had lost track of them, and by the time she was able to search for them Dimitri caught her by the shoulder and informed her grimly that Mercedes had gone ahead back to Garreg Mach along with those who were worst injured, Ingrid among them. 

And now Annette finds herself here, in Mercedes’s warm embrace in the infirmary at Garreg Mach, Ingrid lying unmoving on the bed, and Annette feels sick. “What – what kind of magic was it? Maybe I…”

Mercedes draws back enough that Annette can look into her eyes as she shakes her head. “It’s really hard to say. It seems to be some kind of highly-advanced Dark magic, but the wounds aren’t responding to traditional white magic.” Mercedes looks over to where Ingrid lies, concern written on her face. “Her vitals are all approaching normal, slowly but surely, so I think it will just be a matter of waiting for her body to heal naturally. But I think she’ll always have the scars.”

Annette swallows around the stone of worry in her throat. “But she – she’ll live?”

“She’ll live,” Mercedes says, managing a smile. 

Annette feels the fight leave her all at once and her knees buckle under her. Mercedes catches her and guides her to the nearest bed, holds her close as she sobs. 

For the next three days, Annette cannot be pried away from Ingrid’s bedside. The others cycle in and out, bringing food for Annette and fresh flowers for Ingrid and sitting with her for a time, and after the first day many of them try to coax her away – Ashe, Mercedes, Dimitri, even Felix – but she won’t be swayed. She’s determined to be there when ( _when_ , she tells herself) Ingrid wakes up. 

Ingrid finally wakes at sunset on the third day, when the reds and pinks of the dying sun stream through the window and turn Ingrid’s gold hair auburn. It nearly makes Annette jump out of her skin when it happens; Annette is rearranging the flowers on her bedside table and suddenly a hand is closing around her wrist. She shrieks and jumps back, knocking the vase to the floor with a wet crash, and Ingrid winces at the cacophony of sounds. 

“... Ingrid.”

She nods, slowly, eyes still scrunched up against the sun. It spurs Annette to joy, how _Ingrid_ the action is. “Ingrid!” she says again, louder and more excited. Annette bounds to her bedside, a giddy tremor in her hands. “You’re awake! Oh, you – Thank the _goddess_ , Ingrid, I was so worried!” 

Ingrid makes a valiant effort to sit up, but collapses back against the bed with a grunt of pain. She looks up at Annette blearily. “Annie… I am happy to see you safe,” Ingrid says, hand still wrapped around Annette’s wrist, but something is shuttered in her expression. 

Annette doesn’t like it, so she prods. “What’re you thinking?” 

Ingrid looks down at her lap. “I– just– I thought for sure I would not survive. I am happy to have escaped with my life – of course I am – but I can’t help but feel like I must have paid some price for it. I just don’t like not knowing what the cost was.” She meets Annette’s eyes. “Is everyone else–”

“Yeah,” Annette says, slowly, “yeah, everyone’s okay. Felix took a pretty nasty hit to the side, and Dedue is lucky that lancer didn’t puncture a lung, but everyone’s alive. You got the worst of it.” 

Ingrid closes her eyes in relief. “And– his Majesty–”

It’s not until this moment that Annette finally understands what exactly Ingrid had meant to do, there in that chamber. Annette wonders, vaguely, if Dimitri had really not seen the threat, if there had been any point to Ingrid’s attempted sacrifice at all beyond her near-pathological need to throw herself on the sword for Dimitri’s sake. “...oh. Oh, _Ingrid_.” 

Annette realizes her mistake when Ingrid’s expression slides into naked alarm. “Wait, is he–” Ingrid says, and Annette rushes to correct the misunderstanding. 

“He’s okay! Totally fine.” Ingrid relaxes. “I just– um. Sorry, I know you’re still not all here, I was going to wait, I promise, but–”

“What is it, Annette?” Ingrid asks.

“Um. When you took that hit for Dimitri. What were you thinking?” 

Ingrid considers this. “I’m... not sure what you mean. As his knight, it is my duty to–” 

“To protect him, I know. I understand that. But… Ingrid, I’ve been thinking about that moment the whole time you’ve been out, and I’m… pretty sure he saw it coming. And you were already hurt. So–”

“It doesn’t matter,” Ingrid says, and Annette wishes she could read Ingrid’s tone as apologetic, or as anything other than heartbreakingly full of that selfless Ingrid conviction, “I have to protect him.”

Annette deflates. “I– Ingrid, I was so worried about you, and you just– you act like you don’t even care.”

“What? Annette, what are you talking about?" Ingrid says, eyebrows drawing together.

“You were gonna leave me,” Annette says, all in a rush. “You didn’t even think about that, did you?”

Ingrid has the grace to look ashamed. “I… am sorry, Annette. But it’s– I _have_ to protect him. It is my _duty_. Without it, how can I–”

It is at this moment that Mercedes appears in the doorway. Ingrid trails off when she sees her. Annette wrings her hands, looking between Ingrid and Mercedes. 

“Oh, my,” Mercedes says, “you’re finally awake. That’s lovely.” Ingrid looks toward the window, feeling caught out, and Annette lets out a frustrated sound. 

“I’m gonna go for a walk,” Annette says, storming out of the infirmary. She doesn’t look back, but she wants to – wants to know whether Ingrid is looking after her, whether Ingrid wants her to stay. 

Ingrid doesn’t call after her, and Annette is too stubborn to return so quickly, so she stomps her way down the hall, hands clenched into fists. Of _course_ she understands Ingrid’s duty. How could she not? Blind adherence to that same duty took her father away from her. Annette doesn’t really believe that Ingrid could just up and leave her out of guilt like Gustave did – Annette’s father is a coward, and Ingrid is a lot of things but she would never abandon someone she cared about out of fear. Knowing this doesn’t alleviate the hard knot of worry in Annette’s throat. They’re at war, after all: Annette knows all too well that any of them could die at any time. 

It bothers her, but she understands that it’s a necessary risk for as long as they are fighting to ensure the fate of the Kingdom. She just wishes it didn’t seem quite so much like Ingrid is seeking it out. 

So lost in thought is Annette that she doesn’t notice Dimitri rounding the corner until she’s crashing into his chest. Her resulting squeak is embarrassingly high-pitched, and the King of Faerghus makes this weird low-pitched rumbling sound in his throat, and it’s just altogether unpleasant.

Annette steps backward. “Sorry– I’m sorry, Your Majesty, I–”

Dimitri puts a hand on her shoulder to steady her, “It’s okay, Annette. And please, call me Dimitri. We’ve certainly known each other long enough.” 

Annette settles, rocking back onto her heels and looking up at him. Dimitri is smiling at her, but the dark circles beneath his eyes haven’t abated, and Annette knows he hasn’t slept well in months if not years. “Sorry, Your– uh, Dimitri. I’m sorry. I’m just a little frazzled,” she admits sheepishly, leaning one shoulder into the stone wall.

Dimitri’s shoulders slump. He twists the hem of his cape in his hands. “Then… I take it Ingrid has not yet woken up? I am truly sorry, Annette. I know… she was hurt on my behalf.” 

“No,” Annette says, shaking her head, “that’s okay. I don’t blame you. She was– it– well. Anyway, she actually did just wake up, so I’m sure if you want to see her you could convince Mercie to let you in.” 

A loud _rrrip_ fills the hallway and Annette looks down in confusion at the torn piece of fabric in Dimitri’s hands. He looks at it in frustration before shoving the ripped section deep into his pocket. “She’s conscious? Oh, that is excellent news. I am relieved.”

Annette nods, looking away. “Yeah. You should go see her, she was worried about you.” 

“Ah,” Dimitri says. A series of complex, pained expressions cross his face in quick succession. “Um–”

“I’m gonna get some air,” Annette announces, bowing shallowly and all but pushing past Dimitri to get out of the hallway. She can see him watching her go out of the corner of her eye as she rounds the corner, but she refuses to even slow. At some point during her flight from the infirmary Annette realizes she is crying, salty tears that track lines down her face. She wipes them away quickly. 

She winds up in the courtyard, the only one sitting beneath the gazebo at one of the dainty glass tea-tables. The sun is shining hot down on her neck and she dreads the sunburn she’s sure she’ll end up with, but she doesn’t want to go inside for fear of running into one of her friends and having to explain the hot, angry tears staining her cheeks. Her hands, balled into fists in her lap, are shaking. 

Annette just wishes she _understood_ what was going through Ingrid’s mind but she knows that’s probably something of a pipe dream. Ingrid has aspired to the lofty ideals of knighthood since before she could hold a sword; Annette was probably the only child raised in Faerghus who had never wanted to be a knight, never once in all her life. Annette was twelve years old when her father left, old enough that she knew what was happening and young enough that she spent four more bitter years wondering what she did wrong. She knows now that it was Gustave’s own cowardice that tore him from his family, but that doesn’t ease the sting of his abandonment. 

Ingrid is not a coward, Annette reminds herself. Ingrid wouldn’t leave her out of shame. But there in the courtyard, tear tracks staining her face and the hot sun beating down on her neck, Annette is having a hard time seeing the difference between that kind of callous abandonment, and Ingrid’s own seeming lack of care for her own life. It terrifies Annette. The fear climbs up her throat like a spider and threatens to choke her. 

And then there is a hand on her shoulder, warm and alive. Annette looks up to see Hilda, head tilted to the side, a delicate frown on her face. “Aw, Annie,” she says, sliding easily into the chair across from her, “What’s got you so glum, sugarplum?” 

Annette sniffles, suddenly embarrassed. “Um,” she wipes at her eyes, “I just– It’s okay, I’m okay, I just–” She cuts herself off, then, drawing in great lungfuls of air.

Hilda rests her cheek in her hand and watches Annette carefully, and then makes a determined little hm noise and stands. She reaches out a hand to Annette. Annette stares at it, confusion written on her face. “Come on,” Hilda says, “you need to talk to someone, but you don’t wanna do it here, right? So let’s go back to my room. We can get real comfy and you can tell your Big Sis Hilda all about it.” 

Annette almost wants to start crying again, but she swallows the lump in her throat and takes Hilda’s hand. Hilda grins at her and reaches over to ruffle Annette’s hair. “Come on,” she says, tugging Annette toward the dining hall, “I’ll snag us some snacks.”

Five minutes later, Annette finds herself cradling a bowl of popcorn in her hands, wrapped in a big, soft blanket Hilda pulled from a chest beneath her bed. Hilda’s next to her, munching on a handful of popcorn and watching her carefully. 

After a moment, Hilda speaks. “So,” she says, dragging out the o in that particular Hilda way, “what’s got you so down, Annie?” 

Annette stares down at the popcorn, grip tightening on the metal bowl. “Um. Well. You remember – you were there, when we fought, um, Edelgard. And Ingrid – she got hurt, really really badly. It was really scary,” Annette says.

Hilda cocks her head to one side, frowning sympathetically. “Yeah, I remember, you were super worried. Wouldn’t leave her side for anything. I thought Ashe said she woke up, though? I mean, it’s the kind of thing that sticks with you, but at least she’s okay now, yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Annette says, “yeah, of course I’m grateful she’s okay, I just– it– I feel like she cares more about– duty, and honor, than she cares about coming back to me, you know? Like, she got hurt because she was protecting Dimitri, which is obviously _fine_ ,” Annette can feel herself tearing up again, and she rubs at her eyes furiously, feeling childish and small, “and I get that she’s a knight, and that he’s really important to the fate of the Kingdom, but I– ugh, this is so selfish of me– I just wish it felt like she valued our relationship, or me, or her own goddamn life as much as she values stories.” 

Hilda has been listening to all this with a soft look in her eyes, like she wishes she could take away the hurt Annette is feeling but knows she can’t. “Annie,” she says, scooting under the blanket with her so she can rest her head on Annette’s shoulder, “I don’t think you’re being selfish at all. You care about her, and you want her to come back to you. That’s, like, normal.”

Hilda takes the bowl of popcorn from her and grabs her hands, startling Annette into looking up at her face. “...Hilda?” 

“Annie,” Hilda says, “you need to tell her how this made you feel, okay? ‘Cause if I know you – and I want to say I know you pretty well at this point – I’m gonna say you probably didn’t really explain that you were scared, huh?”

“Well, I–” Annette starts to say, but – now that she thinks about it, she hadn’t really explained anything, had she? She’d just asked what were probably disorienting questions and then run away so Ingrid wouldn’t see her cry. “Um.” 

Hilda gives her a little cheeky smile that might feel patronizing if she were anyone but Hilda. “Yeah, see? Ingrid definitely doesn’t want to hurt you. She cares about you a lot, I promise. I bet she’s confused as hell right now. So go talk to her, mmkay? Let her in.” 

Annette purses her lips and takes a second to fight back the tears that threaten to well up once again, because _really_ , she doesn’t like crying this much, and nobody else needs to see her like this. She nods. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. Thank you, Hilda.” 

“Aw, don’t sweat it! You know I love ya, Annie.” Annette grins and stands. Hilda gets up too, bundling her into a hug and then shooing her out the door of her room. “Go, go! Go get your girl!” 

Determinedly, Annette marches down the hallway toward the infirmary. She’s outside the door, just about to knock, when she hears voices through the old wooden door. 

“... do not understand why you are so keen to throw your life away, Ingrid,” Dimitri is saying, his voice strained. Annette stops dead in her tracks, frozen outside the infirmary. She’s not sure how long this conversation’s been going on or what she’s missed, and besides she hates to eavesdrop, but the part of her that desperately wants to know Ingrid’s response wins out. 

“I’m not trying to, Your Majesty, I just – this is everything I’ve wanted since I was a child. And it – when the war ends I’m going to lose my chance. I just want to prove myself while I can. I want h– well. I want everyone to see what I could have been.” 

“Ingrid…” Dimitri is saying, but Annette isn’t listening anymore. Ingrid thinks this war is all she has to live for? That there’s nothing waiting for her on the other side of it? _Annette_ was waiting for her. She– this– ooh, Annette’s so mad she wants to scream. 

Instead, she curls her hands into fists and marches off through the hallway and down the stairs to her room on the first floor. She slams the door – winces a little bit, at how unnecessarily loud it was – and then collapses, exhausted, onto her bed. 

It’s not even ten minutes before there’s a knock at the door. Annette makes a kind of aborted groan and rolls over onto her back, but otherwise doesn’t make any effort to get up. “Annie?” Mercedes says, tentatively, “May I come in, please?” 

“Mmrgh,” Annette replies. She hears the door creak open and then closed again, and a few moments later the bed is dipping with Mercedes’ familiar weight beside her. Annette opens one eye and looks up at her. Whatever her friend sees in her face, it makes her eyes soften, but Annette’s not interested in anyone’s pity now so she closes her eyes again and rolls over to bury her face into the pillow.

“Hey,” Mercedes says, “what’s all this?” 

Annette makes another frustrated noise. “It’s Ingrid,” she says, gripping the bedsheet in her fists, “she’s just– I thought– well.”

Mercedes hums thoughtfully. “Sit up,” she says, in that tone that leaves no room for argument, the one she’d always used back in their school days to calm their rowdy classmates with a word, “and start from the beginning.” 

So Annette does. She sits up, cross-legged in front of Mercedes on the bed, and as Mercedes carefully wrangles her wavy hair into even sections she tells Mercedes everything. She talks about the battle, how awful it was to be separated from Ingrid, only to see her so badly hurt after finally managing to catch sight of her, how there had been nothing she could do when Byleth needed her elsewhere. She talks about what came after, the days of agonizing waiting, unsure when or if Ingrid would ever wake up, whether she’d lost her for good, how frustrating it was not to be able to do anything for her. 

She tells Mercedes about how it felt when Ingrid finally woke up, the relief that filled her heart and then the realization that sent it plummeting. How she had known Ingrid’s convictions might put her in danger and even that her loyalty lay at Dimitri’s feet at the end of the day, how even still being faced with the material consequences of that, the culmination of Ingrid’s devaluation of her own life in favor of her duty to their king, hurt more than almost anything else. 

When she gets to Hilda’s advice and the determination that had sent her marching back to the infirmary, only to overhear something that made everything worse – that Ingrid doesn’t think she has anything to stick around for after the war at all, that she doesn’t think Annette is worth staying for – Annette falters, because she _knows_ her blatant eavesdropping was wrong. Mercedes doesn’t judge her, though, only continues to weave little braids into the hair around the her face. 

As Annette comes to the end of her story, Mercedes is just tying off the end of an an elaborate braid, with smaller braids and – are those flowers? where did Mercedes even get those? – dotted throughout. Annette touches it reverently and looks back at Mercedes, whose face is as beatific and impassive as ever. 

“Annie,” Mercedes says, “I think you need to talk to Ingrid.” 

Annette had known this would be Mercedes’ verdict from the moment she started talking, but she had expected the idea to make her much more upset than it actually did. Mercedes had always been a grounding presence for her – the big sister she’d never had, ever since their days at the Fhirdiad School of Sorcery – but her calming influence still sometimes managed to sneak up on Annette. 

Still, Annette is scared. “Aw, but Mercie,” she says, “what if it’s weird? What if she’s realized she doesn’t want to have anything to do with me anymore? What if–” 

“What if Sir Alois catches a fodlandy? What if His Majesty lets us call him by his first name? What if a beam of light crashes from the heavens and obliterates us all right now?” Mercedes smiles wryly. “There are always what-ifs, Annie. All we can do is move forward.” 

“I… I know you’re right, but… I’m not ready to do that just yet,” Annette admits, looking down at her clasped hands. 

Mercedes smiles. “Then let’s get something to eat.” 

Mercedes has apparently found time to bake – Annette really doesn’t know how she does it – so the two of them split a platter of mini blackberry tarts out on the dock of the fish pond. One hour later Annette, full and in high spirits again, bids Mercedes goodbye and sets off toward the infirmary. In order to avoid overhearing any more unwanted conversations Annette swings open the door as soon as she approaches. 

Ingrid is the only one in the room, and she startles at the crash the door makes smacking into the wall. “Ah, Annette!” she says, closing her book and setting it aside, looking relieved. “I was hoping you’d return soon.” 

Annette marches over to Ingrid’s bed and sits down in a chair in a way she hopes looks purposeful. Ingrid stares at her. “Um,” Annette says, wishing desperately in that moment that she had spent her time with Mercie figuring out what to actually say when she got here. 

“Your hair looks nice,” Ingrid offers. Annette reaches up to touch the end of Mercedes’ elaborate braid and mumbles a thank-you. 

“So, ah,” Ingrid says, and god, they’ll really go all day if Annette doesn’t do something.

Annette does something. “I’m going to say something I’m feeling, and then you can say something you’re feeling, and we’ll go like that. Okay?” 

Ingrid nods. 

Annette takes a breath. “Okay. Um, I was really really upset when I realized you were trying to sacrifice your life for His Majesty’s that day. It made me feel like I didn’t matter at all to you.” 

The space between Ingrid’s eyebrows creases in that way that it does when she’s really shocked by something. “I– oh, Annette, you mean more to me than anyone else. I am– well,” Ingrid laughs, bitterly, “There are– I– I wasn’t sure how long I would be permitted to stand by your side. I wanted your memories of me to be heroic ones. I know now that was selfish of me. I’m sorry.” 

“... oh,” Annette says. She lets this admission hang in the air for a moment, unsure how to proceed. She wishes she could say it made her feel better, but all that does is raise more questions for her. “Wait, wh– then– ah. Um, I overheard you talking to His Majesty.” 

Ingrid looks down at her hands.

“I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t have eavesdropped, I didn’t mean to, I left as soon as I could, but– but– Ingrid, do you really think you have nothing waiting for you? Nothing to look forward to?” Annette leans forward so she can see Ingrid’s face better, and Ingrid... 

Ingrid has tear tracks running down her face. “I– Annette, Annie, I’m sorry. I should have told you before, It’s just… my father.”

“Your father?”

“He– has been sending me letters. He’s all but set up a marriage match for me. After the war… that’s it for me. I can only be myself for so much longer. I–” Ingrid shudders a breath, “I can only be yours for so much longer.” 

“... scoot over,” Annette says. She crawls into the bed next to her and arranges them so that Ingrid’s head is tucked under her chin. She tangles her fingers absently in Ingrid’s hair. “This okay?” she asks, quieter now that she’s so close to Ingrid’s ear. Ingrid nods. 

“Okay. Ingrid, I know your family’s important to you, but you don’t have to give up on the rest of your life just to make them happy. I can tell this isn’t what you want, so–”

Ingrid makes a frustrated noise into Annette’s collarbone. “It doesn’t matter what I want,” she says, “My father– my brothers– they need the money. _Galatea_ needs the money. I’m the only one who can save us. I’ve known this all my life, and still I– I let myself get attached, and I let _you_ get attached. I never wanted to hurt you. I’m sorry.” 

“Ingrid. Hey, look at me.” Ingrid pulls away a fraction so she can look up into Annette’s eyes. Annette wipes the tears from her cheeks with a thumb. “I– I know we haven’t talked about what exactly we are to each other yet, and maybe this is why, but no matter what I– I care about you, okay? You’re really important to me. And yeah, I also like kissing you, and if you asked me to I would marry you tomorrow, but–”

“What?” 

Annette feels heat rush to her face and she looks away from Ingrid, cursing her inopportune lack of a filter. “Um! Well! Don’t worry about it! Anyway! The point is! If you think marrying whatever stuffy noble your dad picked out and having crest babies or whatever will actually make you happy, of course I won’t stand in your way. But I– I care about you, and I can tell you care about me too, and you are a goddamn _war hero_ who is _childhood best friends with the king._ I think if Galatea is struggling, you can ask for help. Hell, I’ll help you! I could learn about, like, crop rotations! But just–” Annette takes a deep breath, “Just… just don’t give up on us if it’s not what you want, okay?” 

Ingrid’s grip in the material of Annette’s capelet tenses and then relaxes, and she sighs. “You’re too good to me,” she mumbles, pressing her forehead into Annette’s neck. Annette smiles. “I– I’ll talk to my father. I’ll tell him I can’t go through with it. Annette… I am sorry, for what I have put you through. It wasn’t fair.” 

Annette looks away. “Yeah, well. We’ve all got stuff, huh? Turns out your stuff ended up like, kicking sand in my stuff’s eyes this time.” Ingrid huffs a laugh at this, and Annette makes an affronted sound. “Hey, don’t be mean. Anyway, you’re still important to me, and as long as you’re solving the underlying issue and we’re like, talking about this, then I’m okay.”

Ingrid nods vigorously. “I promise. I– oh, Annette, you really are the best person I know, aren’t you?” 

Annette beams at her, . “Hey, Ingrid?”

“Mmhmm?”

“Can I _please_ kiss you now?”

Ingrid laughs and leans in, pressing her mouth to Annette’s giddily. It is not the most technically skilled kiss they’ve ever had – Ingrid has tears on her face and she still can’t move very much without hissing in pain or, worse, tearing at the wounds beneath the bandages on her chest – but Annette thinks, privately, that it is her favorite anyway. 

When Ingrid pulls back, mischief glinting in her eyes, Annette knows she is done for. “So,” Ingrid says, drawing out the o like she’s Hilda, “you’d marry me tomorrow?”

Annette flushes and pushes Ingrid’s face away, Ingrid laughing all the while. “Shush!” Annette pouts, “Don’t tease me!” 

“Aw,” Ingrid says, “I’m sorry, Annette. It’s just… it’s nice. To know we’re on the same page.”

Annette’s eyes widen. “Wait, you mean–”

“I think we should wait until the war is over and things have settled a bit more, but… I love you. I want everyone to know about it.”

Annette beams and kisses Ingrid. And kisses her, and kisses her, and kisses her.

**Author's Note:**

> and then annette learned all about crop rotation. they were married one calendar year later. 
> 
> if you liked this, i am [@exbeekeeper](https://twitter.com/exbeekeeper) on twitter! come say hi!


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